Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/368

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HERE'S TO THE KING, SIR.

Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,
Arise the burden of my song;—
This day a stag must die,
With a hey, ho, chevy!
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy
Hark! hark! tantivy!
This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland wilds they sweep along,
O'er fields through brakes they fly;
The game is roused; too true the song—
This day a stag must die,
With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman's pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chase;
Alike the generous sportsman burns
To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.
With a hey, ho, &c,

Here's to the King, Sir,

Here's to the King, sir!
Ye ken wha I mean, sir!
And to every honest man.
That will do't again.
Fill, fill your bumpers high;
Drain, drain your glasses dry;
Out upon him! fie! oh, fie!
That winna do't again.

Here's to the chieftains
Of the gallant Highland clans!
They hae done it mair nor ance,
And will do't again.
Fill, fill, &c.